Yom Kippur is not about being right. It is about being honest — with God, with each other, and with ourselves. And one of the Talmud’s most famous, well-known, and haunting stories shows what happens when we confuse truth with righteousness.

HaTanur shel Aknai — “The Oven of Aknai,”^[i] — is a story that, somehow, in more than 18 years as a Rabbi, I have never once taught, even though it is often cited as a foundational text for Conservative Judaism. 

This is not just a story about rabbis long ago. It is about how we wound one another in the name of righteousness — and Yom Kippur is the one day when we cannot hide from that truth.

The two major figures in this story are Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus and Rabbi Yehoshua. Rabbi Eliezer was the greatest of Yohanan ben Zakkai’s students. Rabbi Yehoshua was considered the second most prominent. Together, the two of them smuggled their teacher out of Jerusalem in a coffin during the Roman siege, shortly before the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE.

Rabbi Eliezer is married to Imma Shalom, the sister of Rabban Gamliel II, who is the Nasi, the leader of the Sanhedrin. Their son is Hyrcanus.

Rabbi Akiva, who looks to both of them as his teachers, will also enter our story.

Our tale opens with the Rabbis debating the kashrut of a particular kind of oven called an Akhnai, which means “snake.”  It is called that because it is formed by a bunch of pieces of pottery arranged in a coiling shape around an open cavity. Something impure has been found inside this oven, perhaps a dead snake. Now they have to determine the oven’s status.

The legal question is whether such an oven can become ritually impure.  If it is an oven, then it can, and it is impure. If it is a broken vessel, then it cannot, and it is pure. To be clear, there is no practical implication, as the need to maintain ritual purity was destroyed along with the Temple.

Rabbi Eliezer rules that it is a “broken vessel,” and thus, pure.  The Ḥakhamim, the Sages, take the opposite viewpoint, determining it to be an intact oven, and thus impure.

During the deliberations, Rabbi Eliezer answers every possible answer in the world (kol teshuvot she’ba’olam), but the Sages reject every single one.

Departing from logic, Eliezer turns to the supernatural. “If the law is in accordance with my opinion, let this carob tree prove it.” Suddenly, the carob tree bursts from the ground and flies hundreds of feet through the air.

“We don’t accept proof from a carob tree,” object the Sages.

“Well then,” Rabbi Eliezer exclaims, “let this stream prove it!” Suddenly, the stream reverses course and begins to run uphill. 

“We don’t accept proof from a stream,” object the Sages.

Moving further to the absurd, Rabbi Eliezer announces, “If I am right, let the walls of the study house prove it.” The walls begin to shake, about to crush the entire Sanhedrin.

Rabbi Yehoshua steps in and issues a brusque order, “If Torah scholars are contending with each other over the law, what is it to you.”

The walls stop moving, frozen in place at an angle, unwilling to fall out of deference to Rabbi Yehoshua, but unable to straighten out of deference to Rabbi Eliezer.

Finally, Rabbi Eliezer goes for broke. “If the law is according to me, Heaven will prove it.” A Divine Voice suddenly booms through the study hall: “Why do you argue with Rabbi Eliezer? The law is in accordance with him in every matter.”

Case closed, it would seem.

But Rabbi Yehoshua stands up and declares, quoting Torah itself, lo bashamayim hi — “It is not in heaven.”^[ii]

That would seem to end the debate, but the Sages are not finished. They collect every single thing that Rabbi Eliezer had declared pure and set them ablaze in a bonfire. Later that day, after he leaves, they vote to excommunicate him.

“Someone has to tell him,” they murmur among themselves. Rabbi Akiva steps forward. “I’ll go, lest someone tactless goes and says something to cause Eliezer to destroy the world.”

So Rabbi Akiva dresses himself in black, in an expression of mourning, goes to his teacher, and sits a distance of four cubits away (about 6 feet), the distance required from someone who has been excommunicated.

Looking up, Rabbi Eliezer asks, “Akiva, what is different about today from other days?”

“My teacher,” he responds, “it appears that your colleagues are distancing themselves from you.”

Understanding the euphemism, Rabbi Eliezer rends his garments, removes his shoes, and sits on the ground, mourning. As tears pour from his eyes, the Talmud relates, one third of the world’s olives, one third of its wheat, and one third of its barley are struck.  Some say that even the dough in the kneading bowls spoiled. Others relate that on that day, everywhere that Rabbi Eliezer casts his gaze burns to the ground.

At that very moment, it so happens, Rabban Gamliel is on a boat. A large wave suddenly swells up to drown him. He understands right away, “It seems that this is on account of what we did to Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus.”

He stands up and declares, “Ruler of the Universe, it is revealed and known before You that it was not for my own honor, nor for that of my father’s house that I acted. It was for Your honor, so that disputes would not proliferate in Israel.” At that, the sea calms.

Our tale returns to Rabbi Eliezer’s home, where his wife, Imma Shalom, which literally means “Mother of Peace,” places herself on watch. She does not allow her husband to lower his head to the ground in a prayer called Taḥanun, “Supplication,” out of fear that if he were to bemoan his fate, it would bring Divine punishment upon her brother. 

One day, something happens. Perhaps she miscalculated the day of the new moon, when Taḥanun is not said. Perhaps a beggar came to her door asking for bread. Whatever the cause, Imma Shalom leaves her husband alone in his prayers.

When she enters his room, she sees Eliezer with his head lowered on the ground. “Get up,” she tells him, “for you have killed my brother.” Just then, a shofar sounds from Rabban Gamliel’s home, announcing his death.

To continue the story, we must jump to another tractate of Talmud, which picks up some years later. Rabbi Eliezer has fallen ill, and so Rabbi Akiva and some of his colleagues go to visit him. It is a Friday afternoon. As they enter, they see Eliezer’s son, Hyrcanus, trying to remove the Tefillin from his father. Tefillin are not supposed to be worn on Shabbat.

Eliezer becomes angry and insults his son, who leaves the room, exasperated. As he sees Akiva and the others, Hyrcanus laments, “It appears that my father has lost his mind.”

Eliezer overhears him and shouts from the next room, “It is Hyrcanus and his mother who are crazy! How can they neglect the preparations for the Torah’s laws of Shabbat, like preparing hot food and lighting candles, which are punishable by stoning, and concern themselves with matters that are only prohibited by Rabbinic law?”

(In other words, there are more religiously important things that Hyrcanus should be worried about.)

“Yup, that sounds like Eliezer,” say Akiva and the Sages. Judging him not to be insane, they enter the room and take their seats four cubits away.

“Why are you here?” the elderly Rabbi demands.

“We have come to study Torah,” they demurred, afraid to tell him it is because he is sick.

“Why have you not come until now?”

“We did not have any spare time.”

“I would be shocked if these ones die a natural death.” Eliezer mutters, his way of predicting that they will be tortured to death by the Romans.

Then Rabbi Akiva asks, “How will I die?”

“Yours will be worse than theirs.”

Then Eliezer raises his arms and places them on his heart, crying, “Woe to you, my two arms, as they are like two Torah scrolls that are being rolled up, [never to be opened again]. I have learned much Torah, but I have not taken away from my teachers even as much as a dog lapping from the sea. I have taught much Torah, but my students have taken away from me only what a paintbrush can remove from a tube of paint.

“I can teach three hundred halakhot about a snow white leprous mark, but nobody has ever asked me about them. I can teach three hundred halakhot with regard to the planting of cucumbers, but no person has every asked me anything about them, except for Akiva ben Yosef.” Eliezer then describes the incident.

And so, chastened, the Sages ask him about the ritual purity of a number of different items that he and the Sages had once disagreed about, “What is the halakhah regarding the ritual purity of a ball of leather stuffed with rags…” and so on. They are trying to find out if he has changed his mind and is willing to defer to the majority.

“Those things can all become impure, but you can purify them by dipping them in a mikvah just as they are, without needing to unwrap them.” The Sages had held that they needed to be unwrapped. Meaning, Eliezer has not conceded. 

“Well then,” they follow up. “What about a shoe that has not yet been taken off its shoe form?  Is it a complete vessel, and therefore subject to impurity, or is it not yet complete?”

Tahor. “It is pure…” and with that final word, his soul leaves his body.

Rabbi Yehoshua stands up and declares hutar ha’neder, hutar ha’neder. “The ban is released. The ban is released.” 

After Shabbat, Rabbi Akiva comes upon the funeral procession. Striking his flesh until his blood flows to the earth, he declares, “My father, my father, the chariot of Israel and its horsemen” (II Kings 2:12). I have many coins, but I do not have a money changer to whom to give them.” In other words, “I have so many questions, but after your death, I have no one who can answer them.”

And here our tragic story ends.

Who is to blame? Let’s start with the Sages. They refuse to hear any of Eliezer’s logical proofs. Is it just that they are not convinced or that they have better arguments? Or, could it be personal? Does the mere fact that Eliezer holds a position automatically disqualify it?

The Sages rightly uphold the principle of majority rule, but then they go overboard. They humiliate their colleague in public, and then socially ostracize him for the rest of his life, this man who was the greatest scholar of the generation. They want to punish him. Rabban Gamliel justifies it in the name of order. Then they wait until it is too late to lift the ban.

What about Rabbi Eliezer? He is stubborn to the extreme. He refuses to acknowledge the authority of the democratic process, which holds that the law is determined by majority vote.

He holds on to grudges dearly. He lashes out at his colleagues, and the world in general, to express his rage and frustration. What hurts him more, that nobody will acknowledge he is right, or that his colleagues cannot stand him?

Eliezer is so committed to the truth of Torah, as only he knows it to be, that he cannot see the humanity of anyone around him. He even takes it out on his poor son, Hyrcanus, who is just trying to help. Eliezer is literally right, with Heaven on his side, all the time.  But what does that get him? 

When the Sages, including his lifelong colleague Yehoshua and beloved student Akiva, show up at the end of Eliezer’s life, they give him a chance to back down, to accept the majority ruling of the Sages on what are really a series of fairly inconsequential cases. His need to be right in all things persists to the very end.

His final word is not forgiveness, not blessing, not love — but purity. Tahor. What a devastating way for a great life to end. It begs the question: What word do I want to leave behind when my time comes

This story, set in the opening decades of the Rabbinic project, is a warning. The Rabbis, as scholars who are attempting to rebuild a Judaism that can function without a Temple and a priesthood, are a very small group. They do not have any power or authority at this point. Even the process by which they reach decisions is still up for grabs.

What do we learn from this story? Does it demand that one forego one’s personal convictions to follow the majority? Is it a warning about the potential tyranny of majority rule? Is it about inflated egos? Is it about revenge? Is this a story about broken friendships and family schisms?

Is this a story about politics, or law, or social cohesion, or visiting the sick? Is it about truth, or purity?

Many in this room are worried about the current state of the world, of the politics and social divisions that seem increasingly out of control and even violent. No doubt, we look at those on the other side and see their flaws. We see their smug certainty, their hypocrisy, their vengefulness, their stubborn refusal to compromise. 

But today is Yom Kippur. Today is not a day when we blame others. It is a day when we look inward at our own souls. It is a day not only for identifying the specific things we have done wrong, our “sins,” as it were, but also for digging deeper and probing our motivations. 

At the opening of Yom Kippur, before Kol Nidrei even, we recite a formula three times: bishivah shel ma’alah, uvishivah shel matah. “By the heavenly court, and by the earthly court. With the consent of the Almighty and the consent of the congregation, we hereby give permission to pray with the sinners.”

The Talmudic origin of this prayer^[iii] insists that, on a fast day, even those who are deserving of excommunication — the Rabbi Eliezers of the world — must be present with us in worship. Because without them, our prayers cannot rise. That is a radical Yom Kippur message: we do not get to decide who is too flawed to be in this room. If they are excluded, so are we.

So I look around, “Oh that guy, he’s a big sinner. Her over there. Oh boy.” Of course, they are looking around at me too, thinking the same thing. On Yom Kippur especially, it is not our job, our task, or even our right, to list the sins that others have committed. Only God sits on the throne of judgment.

My job is to look at myself. And to do it in community, surrounded by all of the other sinners who I trust are doing the same. 

Are there people I’ve harmed, relationships I’ve damaged, feelings I’ve hurt, not out of malice, but out of righteousness? Have I cut myself off from others out of a sense of moral “purity?” Have I stood in the way of reconciliation?

On this Day of Atonement, may we not cling to being right at the expense of being kind. May our pursuit of truth never cost us compassion. And may the final word of our lives not be tahor — but shalom.

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^[i] BT Bava Metzia 59b and Sanhedrin 68a

^[ii] At this point, the Talmud digresses into an Amoraic discussion about the significance of Rabbi Yehoshua’s citation of “It’s not in heaven.” It is not part of the story itself, and it changes its emphasis and significance, so I left it out of my telling. This is the discussion from the Steinsaltz edition of the Talmud (explanatory text in non-bold):

The Gemara asks: What is the relevance of the phrase “It is not in heaven” in this context? Rabbi Yirmeya says: Since the Torah was already given at Mount Sinai, we do not regard a Divine Voice, as You already wrote at Mount Sinai, in the Torah: “After a majority to incline” (Exodus 23:2). Since the majority of Rabbis disagreed with Rabbi Eliezer’s opinion, the halakha is not ruled in accordance with his opinion. The Gemara relates: Years after, Rabbi Natan encountered Elijah the prophet and said to him: What did the Holy One, Blessed be He, do at that time, when Rabbi Yehoshua issued his declaration? Elijah said to him: The Holy One, Blessed be He, smiled and said: My children have triumphed over Me; My children have triumphed over Me.

^[iii] BT Keritut 6b